The Closed Circle
by hmmingbird
Summary: In which Lieutenant Hawkeye drives Colonel Mustang to distraction, and he decides he's had quite enough cold showers.
1. Concupiscence

Some Relevant Information :: You may know me for my more serious works. I have been told they are deep and full of character development. This story is not as deep, and it has a generous sprinkling of adult content. You have been warned, so I make no apologies. Also, for those who are concerned about chapter updates this _is_ a three chapter story, but I completed it before I started posting chapters. If people like this, I'll post the rest.

* * *

**I – Concupiscence**

* * *

_It's already morning. She's been awake._

_ She feels like she's always been awake. Before clocks started to count away time and the minutes and seconds became a measured medium, Riza Hawkeye was awake. She rests her chin on her knees and tells herself she will never need comfort. This is a soldier's rest. This is enough._

_ The sky outside her tear-stained windows is still grey and hollow. Her dream still plucks at her. It's the same dream, creased and shriveled with age, and it takes her to bed every night. She could live to be a thousand and still sleep with familiar demons—red sand, metallic blood, and a sword biting into her throat. She pulls air through her teeth and lays a hand against her neck._

_ Nightmares don't make her scream like they used to. They are her constant companions, and she has learned their ways and habits. Her Colonel is lying in the bed beside her, still sleeping. His bare chest rises and falls, measuring, like the ticking of time trapped in a bottle. _

_ She searches his face for sanctuary and finds places she doesn't know. Roy Mustang has long dark eyelashes and lightly etched laugh lines around his mouth. She wants to open his mind and understand where he lives inside his beautiful mask. She thought they knew each other once. Maybe she simply forgot, and he disappeared when she wasn't looking. He is far away, and she is in her bedroom, hugging her knees and wondering about mistakes._

_ She has never had him to herself just to look at before. It isn't enough._

_ His eyes are liquid, sliding beneath the skin of his lids. She wonders if he still sees the world in perfect shape and color when he dreams, or has it begun to morph—the details slurring and the edges running off the page—until the haunted past becomes even more grotesque. _

_ She extends her arm, pushing away the inky petals of his bangs, wishing he was closer than this. They can share a bed while living on separate islands, and she doesn't wake him because she doesn't yet know what blind men dream about. _

* * *

The train hissed, expelling a breath of thick black smoke. The conductor leaned out of his window and shouted to the attendant at the station. The engine rumbled slowly to life, like a giant black wasp waking from sleep. The wheels began to churn, and the steel titan coughed another cloud of heavy, ashen smoke. A whistle sounded. The train roared exuberantly. It thundered from the station dragging a gust of wind behind it.

Riza Hawkeye held tight to the wrapped bouquet in her arms and tried her best to shield it from the onslaught of smoke. The florist in Central had helped her carefully select a dozen stargazer lilies, sprinkled them with baby's breath, and wrapped them in delicate sea green tissue. So far the exotic pink flowers had made the journey untarnished, and she was determined to keep them that way.

Black Hayate whimpered and tried to take refuge between her legs, nearly knocking her over. She stumbled gracelessly over her trembling dog and kept a tight grip on his leash while juggling her fragile parcel. The whole train ride had been a traumatic ordeal for him. He had spent the majority of the trip cowering beneath her seat, and it had taken a great deal of cajoling to get him to come out again when they arrived at the station. Hayate would never get used to train rides, but she would not leave him behind while she went away. He hated being left alone in her apartment even more than traveling.

When the wind died down, she hastily smoothed out her skirt and tried to pat her hair back into place. It was all too fitting that on a day when she actually tried to do something fancy with it, cosmic events would conspire to thwart her efforts. She scratched Hayate behind the ears until he stopped whimpering and his tail started thumping happily. He, at least was easy to please, which was more than she could say for her fellow passengers.

Only a handful of people had disembarked at the Resembol station. Far from the bustling, churning mass of the Central Train Station, Resembol's train station was a small wooden building with the tracks flush against the platform under the open sky. The air was warm and balmy, the sky a perfectly wet summer blue, and they were probably going to be late.

Her colonel yawned and stretched, the embodiment of catlike ennui. "Well, we made it."

"And now I can _finally_ have a smoke." Havoc already had a cigarette in his mouth and a lighter in his hand.

The three of them were the only nicely dressed people on the platform. Mustang and Havoc had both chosen dress shirts with starched, ironed pants and suit jackets for the occasion. Havoc had even trimmed up his beard and combed his hair. It was hard to tell if Mustang had applied any extra effort. His hair always tended to look purposefully foppish.

"I thought you quit," Mustang groaned and fanned the cigarette smoke away from his face.

"And I though you quit being nosy bastard," Havoc grumbled back. "Seems like we've both gotta deal."

He lit his cigarette and puffed it resolutely while his superior officer glared at him from beneath beetled brows. Riza sighed. It had been a long train ride, and she had made the two men sit together under the pretense of taking care of Hayate. Now they were both at each other's throats. The heat and the uncomfortable dress clothes only made matters worse.

She looked around. A man leading a cluster of bleating sheep crossed them platform in front of them, eyeing them suspiciously. Two children skipped past while their mother shouted at them not to go too close to the tracks. A stray cat prowled around the building watching Hayate warily. Her dog raised his ears, but remained obediently at her feet. A delicious country breeze rippled the fields that sprawled out before them, carrying the scent of lilacs, fresh hay, and farm animals.

"Aren't we supposed to have a car?" she asked.

"I seem to recall Lieutenant Havoc saying he could take care of that." The Colonel shifted the bottle of wine that was to be a gift for the Rockells from one arm to the other.

Havoc bit down on his cigarette and glowered. "I did. It should be here. I'm going to wait in front."

He strode off as fast as he could move with the aid of his cane, still dragging on his cigarette and muttering a mutinous soliloquy that contained the words 'ungrateful' and 'entitled.'

Silence descended like a plague in his absence. The Colonel glanced at her. Their gazes brushed together briefly and blundered around haphazardly, like moths bumping each other in the dark. The black depths of his eyes held a hint of question, but she couldn't begin to address it. Not here on the train platform. She studied the intricacies of the pavement and tried to tell herself she was only imagining things.

"I think I'll go and wait with Havoc," she murmured.

She walked away from him. Hayate trotted after her.

The Second Lieutenant had found a seat near the front door of the station overlooking the dirt and gravel drive. His cane stood propped against the bench, and he was leaning forward, steepling his hands above his knees in contemplation. He stared out at the tumbling hills and tree-speckled horizon, tapping his foot occasionally. The embers of his cigarette glowed an angry red.

She sat down beside him and arranged the flowers on her lap. The lilies bent their spotted heads and fanned waxy petals over her skirt. Hayate sat at Havoc's feet, soliciting a scratch.

"I don't know what's with him," Havoc said without taking his eyes off the horizon. "It's like getting his sight back last week has made him annoyed about everything. Can we re-blind him?"

Riza could have told him. As of late, a series of accidents had befallen her and the Colonel that involved a great deal of kissing. She wasn't sure which of them started it, but every incident had the same intensity of a car crash. Each time, it would flare up out of nowhere and burn hotly. Then there would be a hasty clean-up. The straightening of her rumpled uniform. The fixing of her hair. The arranging of her face into smooth lines of plausible denial.

When she told Rebecca about it over coffee, she referred to it as their kissing problem.

It started after the Promised Day. As the smoke cleared and the rubble settled, her sightless superior officer had held to her tightly. She knew he was terrified that if he released her for even a moment, she would disappear into the blackness, and he would never find her again. He had cleaved to her, warring with relief and despair, and for once, she was too stunned to move at all. Emotions ran like wild horses, too impossibly fast to catch just one and put a name to it. Everyone was bruised, bloody, and shaken to the core.

She had almost died. He had almost died. _Everyone_ had almost died. They had escaped annihilation, but only just. Edward was limping over to his fully corporeal brother and embracing him like a waking sleepwalker, only just realizing the nightmare was over. The hole through headquarters yawned wide. Bodies in blue. Bodies in white. Hundreds of new gravestones. The clouds pulled back and the sun shone on it all.

The medics had to pry him apart from her, insisting that they both needed treatment. She could barely stand, and blood was streaming down his arms from the deep wounds in his hands. But he did not let them load her onto a stretcher until he had kissed her.

The world had taken on a fuzzy quality. She knew she was about to pass out, but she remembered the way he had kept her in his arms, touching the angles of her face until he found her mouth. He traced her lips with calloused and shaking fingers. Then he had brushed his lips against hers—A promise. An apology. A prayer. They didn't need words between them after that.

There were more kisses after the first. When she was released from the hospital, he had laid a cool kiss over the scar on her neck. She had kissed his eyes, his hands, and then, boldly, his mouth. They had made love in the darkness of her bedroom while the rain tapped against the windows and the wind howled like a wounded beast seeking succor in the night. He held her with the same desperation—the fear of losing precious things in the dark. There may have been tears on her cheeks. She couldn't have said whose. She couldn't have said if it mattered. They were both blind that night.

In the morning he asked her to marry him.

She twisted the sheets in her fingers and told him no.

He left.

That night never happened again.

Her memory gnawed away at the details. Too much thinking had blurred together the touch of his skin, the fire of his mouth, and the curl of her toes until she almost could have dreamed it. In time, his scent faded from her sheets. In time, reality reared its ugly head and the specter of the Promised Day lost its phantom hold on them. He left on various missions for extended periods of time. He didn't often take her with him.

If the others in his group found this odd, they never remarked on it. They had their own hurts to attend to without fighting through the layers of dissonance around their superior officer. Blindness was constructing a cage around Colonel Mustang, and he lingered in his separateness with an expressionless placidity that he wore like a mask. She had refused the proposal she never thought she would refuse, and now she was an outsider as well. Nobody was allowed in.

He changed after his visit with Dr. Marcoh, and it was more than just regaining his vision. The fire of purposed burned bright in his eyes again, and he approached the world with the wide-eyed wonder of an infant. He had an unquenchable need to see and re-see everything he had missed—flowers, street signs, clouds, books. Most especially books. He became an avid and unquenchable reader almost overnight. He started planning for the future with a new fervor. He dished out orders, he drew up maps, he guzzled coffee, and he talked about his dreams.

He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. It was a look that left her feeling stripped naked but not ashamed. There was something reverent, curious, and frightened in that look, and he was devout in the way he stared at her. She would catch him watching her doing mundane tasks like fixing a stapler or sorting through a tome of incident reports with the same ardent concentration he gave to his books. As if she might suddenly do something amazing, and he couldn't afford to miss it. And then, at times, she caught a glimpse of something else. He had a certain look that sent a resonant thrum through her body—deeper, darker, and hungry.

It had been barely a week since his return from Marcoh's clinic. In that week, the kissing had started again, but it was an entirely different animal than before. This kind of kissing no longer felt like two broken people trying to pick up all the pieces of their shattered souls. It wasn't about death or fear or guilt anymore.

It was decidedly more problematic.

He would catch her in an empty stairwell, just an innocent hand on the small of her back, and then they would fasten together with a crushing intensity that left them both gasping. He would tangle his fingers in her hair and force her mouth open with greedy, insistent kisses that sent an electrical thrill through her and drove her to fight for dominance, to rake her nails down his back and wriggle her hips against him until he groaned. She loved the way his eyes would dilate, the way his arms would start to shake, and the way his tongue would demand entrance to her mouth, kissing her hard enough to leave her lips pink and bruised.

On the stairs. In his office. In deserted aisles at the library. In every dark corner they could find. They were like teenagers swept up in a hormonal tidal wave and still scared of being caught.

As of yet, they hadn't crossed any lines of no return. His wandering hands always stayed just barely within the realms of propriety. They never discussed that rainy night in her bedroom when they had sought solace in each other. They both knew this was different, and it would be different when it reached its natural conclusion. This was fire, and they would both burn.

This was the reason she had put Havoc between them on the train. This was the reason the Colonel was more restless than usual. This was the reason their gazes frequently bumped but never held. Perhaps the trip to Resembol had been a mistake. Perhaps this was all just playing with matches.

But the Colonel had insisted vehemently that he needed to pay a visit to the Elric brothers now that he had his sight restored. It went beyond any of his personal problems. He needed to see Alphonse in his body and see that Edward had gotten his arm back. He had gotten caught up in their quest, and he needed to see its completion with his own eyes. He made all the necessary arrangements for a trip to Resembol and picked Havoc and her to accompany him. He wouldn't hear objections.

So they were here. She was glad to have another opportunity to see the brothers and give them her congratulations now that nobody was covered in blood. Her bouquet of flowers seemed like small thanks for saving the world. It was silly when she thought about it, but she knew they wouldn't take her gift that way.

"The Colonel is dealing with a lot of things right now," she told Havoc neutrally. "He just got his sight back and had to reevaluate his life all over again. I don't think he ever expected to pursue his dream to become leader of the country again. Perhaps it's all just a little overwhelming."

She tried again to get her hair to lie flat, but the wind kept plucking little pieces and tossing them in her face. Havoc stubbed out his cigarette with his foot.

"I just learned I can walk again," he said. "Doesn't make me act like a dick."

"Give it some time. You know he values your friendship."

"That's a Hawkeye answer if I ever heard one," Havoc grinned at her. "You are always so calm, even when he has his tantrums. Doesn't he ever frustrate you sometimes?"

Not in the way Havoc was talking about. It had been almost two days since their last accident on the stairwell. She was about the engineer one herself.

"I try to be patient," she said. "It's not always easy. It also helps if I don't call him a nosy bastard."

His grin widened. "Yeah, I guess that was pretty stupid, huh?"

She nodded with a smile of her own.

"Hey, so . . ." He stretched out his legs and looked at her hopefully. "You wouldn't mind if I ride shotgun then? When our car gets here, I mean. I don't really want to have to sit with him anymore. I've had about as much as I can stand."

"I—I guess. . ."

She didn't want to sit with the Colonel either, but she didn't feel like discussing her reasons, so she was forced to concede. The drive to the house was, what, two hours? That only meant two hours of uncomfortable silence. Oh bliss.

Havoc was oblivious to her discomfort. "You're so great, Hawkeye."

* * *

Roy Mustang was in Hell.

The car had finally arrived, and then he had found himself relegated to the back seat across from his lieutenant with a squirming dog, a bottle of wine, and a bouquet of lilies between them. There were two horrible elements about the situation that conspired in tandem to drive him mad. He didn't know which would snap him first, but it was an undeniable fact that he would probably snap before they reached the Rockbell house. At this point the dog would be the only casualty he might mourn.

The first element was the awkward silence between Hawkeye and himself that neither of them could breech, beyond a few pleasantries about the nice weather and the spacious interior of the car. Havoc had promptly fallen asleep in the passenger seat, so he was no help in this regard. The driver was a terse little acorn of a man with a rigid face and white hair growing from his ears. He could not be prevailed upon to speak more than was absolutely necessary, and he was also half-deaf, so anyone speaking to him had to shout to be heard. That only left Hawkeye, and he didn't know where to begin with her.

The second element was the cut of her sundress. More specifically the plunging neckline. More specifically her ample cleavage. To be honest, it wasn't that much cleavage, but he had more than enough imagination to supply the details the dress did not reveal. He knew he was as good as openly staring, and he knew she had probably noticed, but he couldn't seem to stop himself. It really wasn't fair of her to wear that dress and expect him not to stare. Or maybe she wanted him to stare. Maybe that was the entire idea. It was impossible to tell with her.

He had endured the first hour perfectly fine. They had made a decent attempt at conversation, but eventually their back-and-forth about the recent activities of the Elrics felt strained and half-hearted, so they had given up the pretense. Hawkeye had taken out a gun from a mysterious place on her person and started cleaning it with somewhat forced intensity, and he stared resolutely out the window.

But then he had gotten bored with looking out the window at different versions of the same rural scenery, so he had made the mistake of looking at her. She had made some comment about the heat and shed her shawl. The white sundress beneath was a creation of Satan. It bared the entire expanse of her neck and shoulders, and framed the rest of her in a way that was entirely too pleasing. All at once the car was too hot, his clothes were too tight, and there wasn't enough air. His treacherous memory supplied him with torturously accurate recollections. His fingers itched.

In the past he could have lived. He probably would have looked, but he could have lived. When he was blind, it was difficult to reconcile his memories of their brief brush with intimacy, but he put them aside and tried to limit his interaction with her. He wasn't a slave to his lusts, and he had other occupations after all. Everything changed when their relationship had taken a turn for the torrid.

When he saw her again, he knew that distancing her was out of the question. How could he have forgotten her depthless amber eyes, her knowing half-smile, or the graceful way she moved about the office? All at once it became quite impossible to ignore his dangerous memories when he could see her again. He came back from the trip to Doctor Marcoh's clinic a man possessed with new purpose. Everything took on a hue of perfect clarity. When he kissed her and she responded with equal fervor, he knew he would have her. Whatever it took. Protocol was no longer sufficient reason to hold back.

And yet. And yet. They had spent so long carefully evading the fire that it was difficult to jump in headfirst. There were so many barriers to be brought down. Tangled emotions—love and hurt, trust and fear. Kissing her had a way of seeming both natural and unreal at the same time. He still struggled to wrap his mind around the thought that he was actively pursuing his lieutenant, romantically and sexually. Hawkeye, who always dutifully stood two steps behind him and watched his back. Hawkeye, who had been through wars with him. Hawkeye, who had wiped sand and sweat from his eyes while ordering him to get back up. Hawkeye, who he had seen almost bleed to death beneath Central headquarters.

He knew he had always wanted her, but he had always held himself at arm's length. And now, they were making out in his office while trying to go on pretending nothing had changed because she was still Lieutenant Hawkeye, and he was still The Colonel. There was an unspoken fear that if they became something else, they would lose what they had, even if the pretending was futile. They couldn't stop their clandestine accidents any more than they could have stopped the sun from rising.

He was entirely serious about marrying her. Perhaps he shouldn't have asked so soon, when they were both still licking their wounds from the Promised Day, but he had panicked when he realized the gravity of what they had done and how she might construe it. She needed to know she meant so much more than relief in the dark. He wanted to tell her so many flowery and romantic things. Love poetry and such. Instead, he had just blurted out a proposal and once it was said, he couldn't unsay it. Her response had been fearful and withdrawn, as he should have known it would be. But he would ask her again. And again. Whatever it took.

A hint of a blush was stealing over her features, but she was comporting herself with determined stoicism. Then there was that damnable piece of hair that kept slipping loose from her bun. He could easily lean over and tuck it back into place. And then maybe a bump in the road would cause him to slip. And then he would ravage her. Make her yell his name, and make her say yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.

No.

He clenched his hands into fists, and tried to make himself look out the window again. Now was neither the time nor the place. It would have to wait until the three day trip to Resembol had come to a close. Then he could take her to dinner at a nice restaurant. He would make it a proper date like she deserved. Of course, he would try to be a gentleman. He would open doors for her and kiss her chastely on the cheek, but with any luck they would end up in another deliciously compromising position. His place or hers. It made no difference as long as they could progress to more than just kissing.

Gods, no other woman had ever driven him this crazy. He wanted to be sweet and tender. He wanted to take things slow because she was important to him and he couldn't screw this up by being overzealous. But it was monumentally difficult, especially because he could swear she didn't want to go slow either. The last time, in the stairwell, she had been the one slipping her hands beneath his shirt and teasing his lower lip with her teeth.

He exhaled slowly and touched a finger to his temple. Green hills dotted with horses, cattle, and sheep rolled past. Sunlight streamed in through his window, heating up the car enough to make him throw off his jacket. The road was getting increasingly rough and bumpy. Hayate crossed the car and climbed onto his lap as if sensing the tension that was running through him. He pet her dog and watched his breath condense on the window.

When they finally arrived at the little yellow house, the sun was starting to droop lower in the sky. Havoc woke with a snort when the car shut off. Hawkeye's gun disappeared, and once again he found himself wondering where exactly her holster might be. Hayate started wiggling and barking when he saw Den sitting on the front steps, and as soon as Roy opened the door he bounded out.

The two dogs circled each other with excited barks and sniffed at each other tensely, tails held stiff and legs rigid. In a matter of moments it was decided by unspoken canine code that Den was the dominant dog. Hayate assumed a position of submissiveness. She licked him once, and they were pals.

Hawkeye paid the driver while the family gathered on the porch.

Pinako Rockbell still looked the same as when Roy had last seen her long ago. Same short statue, same impossibly vertical hairstyle, still spry and lively for an elderly woman. Her ever-present pipe was in her mouth, and the afternoon sun glinted on her glasses. Her blue-eyed granddaughter stood beside her in a floral print dress with her hands clasped in front of her and a warm smile on her face. Winry had grown into a pretty young woman with a sweet, unguarded demeanor. Remarkably, Edward now stood taller than her. His guarded scowl and crossed arms were her perfect foil. He still wore his hair in a braid, and his shirt bared both of his flesh-and-blood arms, almost indistinguishable from each other already.

With them stood another teenager of about Edward's coloring with a kind, heart-shaped face and large golden eyes. His clothes hung off his spare frame, but he was looking healthy and tan. It was to him that Den returned when she had thoroughly inspected Hayate.

"Alphonse," Roy said as he approached. "You have no idea how good it is to see you."

The younger Elric smiled. "Thank you, Colonel. I'm glad you have your eyesight back."

Was he? For some reason he couldn't quite shake the feeling that the Elrics would think less of him for using a Philosopher's Stone to restore what the Truth had taken away. This was the other reason for his visit that he hadn't revealed to anyone. He needed to know he had Edward and Alphonse's acceptance and approval. He didn't know why the acceptance and approval of teenagers was necessary. It just was. He didn't want to explain himself.

He didn't want to overwhelm the Rockbell household by bringing his entire group of subordinates and eating them out of house and home, so he had chosen the allies he had brought with him carefully. Havoc was a nice buffer for disapproval, as he also had what was lost to him restored with the same Philosopher's Stone. He also hoped the Elrics would be glad to see his progress, just as he was glad to see theirs. Everybody needed to be reassured they were recovering after the Promised Day. Hawkeye was nice to have for so many reasons.

He climbed the stairs and extended his hand to the elder Elric. "Edward."

Edward took it, brusquely. "Colonel."

His handshake was strong. It felt disconcerting to be shaking The Fullmetal Alchemist's right hand for once. The kid—though he was hardly a kid anymore—tipped up one corner of his mouth, betraying his indifferent façade. Roy never thought he'd see the day when Edward Elric was genuinely happy to see him.

"You just keep getting uglier every time I see you," he grinned.

Roy laughed. "Likewise."

He turned to the owner of the house and bowed respectfully. There was something unnervingly unreadable about her expression behind those glasses, but he thought she looked pleased to see them.

"Miss Pinako, I hope you accept this as a small token of my gratitude for letting us stay with you." He held out the wine.

She took it and inspected the label, puffing thoughtfully. "The boys have told me so much about what you did for them, Colonel Mustang. I would say I don't need gifts in exchange for hospitality, but I can't say no to this vintage."

"We'll drink it tonight." She smiled and looked past him. "Pretty thing here must be your lieutenant."

He nodded with his teeth clenched behind his benevolent smile. He still hadn't forgiven his lieutenant for the dress.

Hawkeye moved beside him and took Pinako's hand. "I'm surprised you remember me."

Introductions and greetings had to be made all around. Roy gave Winry his most charming bow and complimented her dress. Then everybody's dress had to be complimented, and then everybody had to remark upon how nice everyone else looked. Edward and Alphonse had to congratulate a suddenly shy Havoc and introduce him to Pinako, who told him frankly he could do without the beard. After prompting, Havoc told them about how well his recovery process was going, proudly declaring he wouldn't even need the cane in another two weeks.

"Oh Miss Hawkeye," Winry beamed when Hawkeye handed her the bouquet of lilies. "These are so beautiful! I'll find a vase for them."

They embraced, which was fine. Roy could handle Hawkeye putting her arms around someone else without reacting. It was just a little blonde girl. He was less than pleased when his lieutenant turned and put her arms around Alphonse to hug him tightly and tell him again how wonderful it was to see him in his own body. The boy turned red as a pomegranate and said his hello to the ground. Since when did she hug people to greet them? Was it strictly necessary?

What the hell was wrong with him? Thankfully, she did not bestow the same treatment on Edward, so he didn't have to think about it any further.

Pinako began making efforts to herd the group inside. Nobody obeyed her until she mentioned that dinner was almost ready. This earned her their full attention.

"The kids wanted stew, so I hope that's okay with you," she said.

Havoc rubbed his stomach and grinned. "You bet. Especially after nothing but cold sandwiches on the train."

The little house seemed three times smaller with seven people and two dogs filling it. A full spectrum of voices talked and laughed and argued. Dogs clicked around on the wooden floor, following each other from person to person. Coats had to be hung and suitcases had to be put away in the spare bedroom. Winry found a vase for the flowers and set them up on a counter where they wouldn't be disturbed in the chaos. Then they all helped find more chairs until there were seven places at the round kitchen table, the placement of which had to be argued over most vociferously by Edward, Havoc, and Winry.

"It'll be a little crowded, but that's just fine," Pinako announced over the din. "Now, everybody wash up."

He followed Edward to the sink and tried not to watch her, but it was embarrassingly hopeless. She looked at him, and her amber eyes arrested him with the truth. It had all seemed so simple when he was planning the trip to Resembol. Everything was simple when it was theoretical. He could survive keeping his distance. He had managed to be around her for years without staring. Or grabbing her. Or making amorous professions.

_How had he survived for years? _

He couldn't remember anymore.


	2. Control

Nitpickery :: Edits have already been made.

* * *

**II – Control**

* * *

The table was too small for seven people. Why didn't this bother anyone else?

The surface was full to bursting with plates, cutlery, glasses, napkins, and savory smelling dishes, and she had to search hard to find an inch of uncovered wood. The stew in its gleaming cast-iron pot was the center of attention. It was a thick, chestnut-colored concoction, filled with tender morsels of lamb, red potatoes, and pearl onions. Pinako had spiced it perfectly, and set it simmering for hours until the flavors melded and the meat was falling apart. It filled the air in the kitchen with the aroma of braised meat, sage and thyme. That dish alone would have been enough, but there were also biscuits, still warm from the oven, green beans sautéed in butter, and a plate of fried blue gills that Alphonse had caught and prepared himself. Winry had even brought over a bowl of red raspberries still beaded with water from being washed.

Riza tucked in her elbows and studied the faces around her, illuminated by the soft overhead light. Edward and Havoc were jostling over who would get the last helping of stew while Pinako shouted at them both to sit down before they spilled something. Edward still had a spoon in his mouth and stew left in his bowl, but he was not about to let Havoc have the last of it. The small Elric had grown since she had last seen him. He was as vital as an animal in its prime, tan and corded with muscle. Havoc had all the strength and training of a soldier, but they were evenly matched in the fight. She couldn't tell if either of them really wanted the stew as much as they wanted to spar.

Alphonse, who she had not seen without a smile on his face since their arrival, was sitting contentedly with Den's head in his lap. He had progressed to being able to finish a whole bowl of stew on his own, but he still got full easily. Now he only had eyes for the raspberries and a second glass of milk.

Winry was to her right, watching the whole scene with only slight interest. Riza didn't blame her. If she had spent her life watching Edward throw histrionic fits over the smallest slights she probably wouldn't raise her eyebrows anymore either.

The Colonel had chosen not to involve himself in the squabble. He was using the opportunity it provided to snatch up all the unprotected biscuits and fried fish he could get his hands on. Pressed together as they were, she could feel him move every time he reached out across the table, and this was precisely the problem. She was hyper-aware of his touch, and the heat and proximity of his body were ever-present. It made every tiny hair on her thigh stand on end when his leg brushed against hers. She wanted to jump away. She wanted to snake her fingers through his hair and taste his teeth.

She needed to get a grip on herself, or make him stop moving.

They hadn't done much looking at each other during the meal. It was customary for the Colonel's lieutenant to sit on his right side, and they had taken their customary places without question. Besides, everybody would have noticed if they sat apart. Or perhaps she was only imaging that other people would care where she sat. Self-consciousness was an itchy thing.

It was so easy to become a part of this family—to smile and laugh with them, crumble biscuits into little boats and sail them across the surface of her stew, compliment Winry's hair and watch the younger girl twirl it in her fingers shyly. Hayate knew better than to beg for scraps, but he stayed close to her. He curled up at her feet, and she let him have a few bites of lamb, which he took delicately from her palm, never once touching his teeth to her flesh.

There had been a frightful moment when the Colonel had reached for the same set of silverware as her. Their fingers sidled close and then jerked apart as if they had both touched the same light-socket. The fork clattered to the ground. Havoc gave them a suspicious glance, but he was more interested in his stew than the prickly antics of his comrades. Her electrocution went unnoticed by the rest of the table.

"Sorry, I'll get you a new fork." The Colonel's voice was a low murmur. He met her eyes, and there was that deep, dark something that made her mouth feel dry and thirsty.

He rose from the table to find one. She pressed her glass to her lips.

When he slipped the new fork into her hand, she had already decided this trip was going to be more trying than she could have ever predicted. If they couldn't even sit by each other at the dinner table, they were kidding themselves about putting on a three-day show of normality. Someone was going to notice sooner or later, and then the worst of all might happen. She would have to talk about it. She stabbed raspberries and watched the fat red berries gush and pop on her plate.

Later, when nobody could eat anymore, they stood up and adjourned to the comforts of couches and playing cards. She volunteered herself to Pinako for dish duty.

"Nonsense, dear," the old woman snapped. "You are our guest. It's Winry's turn to do the dishes tonight."

She had done too much sitting. "I'll help her out then."

"Fine, suit yourself," Pinako tapped her glasses up higher and shuffled off in search of her tobacco tin.

Winry beamed at her. "I'll wash if you dry."

They found a pair of well-worn aprons in the pantry, and Winry let her choose between one that bore a pattern of cotton-candy pink hearts and a faded white creation with the words "kiss the cook," proudly stamped on the front. She chose the hearts. Winry donned the white one without complaint and scooped her luxuriant blonde hair into a knot. She had cut it shorter than Riza remembered, but it was still as thick and velveteen as a curtain. It seemed a lifetime ago, in this house she had gazed upon Winry's Rockbell's pretty blonde hair and wondered if hers would be pretty too if she let it grow. It was one of her few concessions to vanity, and she had let it be because there were times when looking pretty made her feel more powerful than holding cold steel in her hands.

The kitchen sink was beneath a window that peered out over the verdant, summer-kissed hills of Resembol and the serrated mountains that sprouted like teeth beyond them. A small creek trickled between the Rockbell property and a pasture speckled with piebald horses. Light pooled down in a perfect yellow square on the rag rug behind them, and Hayate curled up in the spot with a satiated yawn.

Winry turned on the taps full blast to fill one side of the sink while she mixed in soap. "You didn't have to help me out, but I appreciate it."

Riza went to the table to gather a pile of dishes. "I didn't want you to have to wash dishes for seven all by yourself. You'd be stuck in here for hours."

"Ed and Al make more than enough dishes most nights. This isn't that much different," she shrugged. "I like having more dishes to do."

"It makes the house seem warmer."

"Yes." Winry ran a plate under the suds and started to scrub. "But I think they are getting ready to go away again. They haven't told me, but I can tell."

Riza frowned and looked at Winry. Her shoulders were bunched up and her scrubbing had become more furious. By the time she passed the plate to her it was gleaming. She studied a small chip in the rim and tried to remember what it was like to be left behind. The last time, she had been younger than Winry was now. Her hair had been short, and she had never killed anyone.

"Why don't you go with him?" she asked softly.

"I can't." Winry picked up another plate. "He needs to go alone sometimes, and I've gotten used to waiting for him. Don't feel bad for me. I have granny, and my friends. And my work. Absence gives us time to miss each other."

She took the next dish from the water and buffed it with her towel. "It must still be difficult."

Outside a fox whisked through the field like a brushstroke of new color on the landscape. The horses in the pasture stopped grazing. They stared at it and stamped their feet. The fox parted the grass as it went, trotting briskly and never looking back.

"I take the time I have with him," Winry said.

"And you know he'll always come back?"

"Well, he does still have that leg." Winry looked out the window and smiled fondly at a memory only she was privy to. "Who else is gonna fix it for him when he breaks it?"

They both heard the floor creak and turned around abruptly. Hayate lifted his head and raised his ears. Roy Mustang stood by the opposite counter with his hand in a glass cookie jar looking caught and guilty. He closed the jar, cookie in hand, and took in their aprons with a grin.

"Didn't mean to startle you ladies." He nodded to them and then the dog on the floor. "And Hayate."

"What are you doing, Sir?" she asked.

"Just seeing if you needed any help with anything," he continued to grin as he took a bite of his pilfered cookie. "And enjoying your cute little apron, Lieutenant."

Winry's sapphire eyes ping-ponged back and forth between them, waiting with apprehension for a reaction.

Instead of reaching for a gun, Riza simpered sarcastically. "Why thank you, Colonel. You want to try it on?"

The Colonel smirked and stuffed the rest of his cookie in his mouth without a word. She saw the flash of admiration in his eyes. It always happened when she retorted with something especially impertinent.

Winry cleared her throat. "If you really want to help us out, you could bring over the rest of the dishes on the table."

"Okay, but only if I get to wear the apron next."

He held eye contact with her, gave her apron another lengthy appraisal, and started gathering up the remaining dishes. Winry was still glancing back and forth between them and looking far too perceptive. Riza didn't like it.

They turned back to the task at hand. She hoped Winry wouldn't choose to comment about the Colonel, and to her surprise, the girl didn't.

She licked her lips pensively and began on a completely new topic. "Listen Lieutenant—Riza. I mean Riza. Have you ever seen Sterling Lake?"

Riza was so taken aback, she almost didn't understand the question. "What's that?"

The Colonel passed behind them and put a stack of dishes near the sick. Winry thanked him quietly and turned back to her with guileless blue eyes.

"Sterling Lake is the most beautiful lake in Resembol, and nobody really knows about it," she said. "It's about two miles from the house down a little dirt trail that starts in the backyard. I go there a lot when I'm waiting here and feeling alone. It's a nice quiet place to go and think."

Riza stacked a plate and didn't turn to look when he walked behind her. She still couldn't tell where this rabbit-trail was going. "Two miles away?"

Winry nodded. "You should go there sometime while you're here. I think you'd like it."

"Why's that?"

Winry just smiled at her. "Sometimes it helps to get out in nature if you've got a lot on your mind. It gives you new perspectives."

Riza sunk her hands into the foamy water, scrounging for another dish to dry. "I do have a lot on my mind these days."

* * *

A log broke with a crack like snapping bones. Embers plumed, glowing ephemerally before raining back to earth as ash.

All his life Roy could never look away from fire. Fire was as captivating as lightning striking a tree, as looking into the eyes of a tiger, as watching a woman balance on one leg as she reached down to adjust her stocking. It had an ardent, untouchable aspect that invited the daring to burn their hands. Except fire didn't burn him. He knew its secret nuances and desires, and it yielded to his will. He could caress it and spin it like thread around his fingers. He could make a tiny drop of fire dance and sway seductively on the head of a pin, or he could make a roaring leviathan of flame, big enough to desecrate entire landscapes.

This fire, burning in the Rockbell's fire pit, was a docile creature. It frolicked inside its designated space, eating its designated logs, lovely and tame. Every once in a great while it would hiss and spit just to show that it still had teeth, but then it would lay back down and crackle serenely. He sat back on his log and tried to be content.

The deepening twilight was cool and clear, scarred pink around the edges and stained with smoke. Stars appeared in the heavens, and the fire's prominent glow become increasingly hypnotic as night dropped its shroud. His lieutenant had placed herself across the fire pit. She was brushing that infernal lock of hair behind her ear and speaking softly to Winry and Pinako, but he couldn't quite make out their words. Every once in a while their eyes would catch and snag across the flames, and she would smile at him, and he would smile back, and it felt childish to be so timid.

He turned to Alphonse who was seated beside him on the log. "Your brother is becoming a regular little pyromancer."

Alphonse nodded. "Yeah. He likes doing everything himself now. Just don't let him hear you call him little. He still doesn't like that."

Edward had refused to let Roy set the tinder ablaze with a snap of his fingers, and so they had all watched the blonde boy as he bent and struggled to coax a fire into being. When he finally got a spark, he nursed the fledgling flame with all the care of a mother bird, feeding it twigs until it was big enough to sustain itself. Roy had to concede a certain amount of admiration for the boy, and a certain degree of chagrin. It had been years since he had started a fire from scratch. It was troubling to think he might have forgotten how.

"You ever think it's unfair," Roy mused, half to himself and half to Alphonse. "How it ended? Here we are, able to transmute with a clap of our hands, and Edward, who sacrificed the most in the end, is left with nothing."

He expected Alphonse to say something diplomatic. Alphonse always said something sagelike and diplomatic.

"It _isn't_ fair," he declared fiercely. "I don't want something my brother can't have."

For the first time since they had arrived at the Rockbell's, the boy's smile was replaced with steel and something reminiscent the suit of armor returned to him. The fire turned his golden eyes a sepulchral orange, and his fists clenched, showing white knuckles.

"How does Edward feel about not having alchemy?" he asked.

"He says he doesn't miss it," Alphonse kicked at the dirt and grimaced. "But sometimes I catch him. When I transmute something, he gets this expression on his face. Like he's lost a friend, and I'm reminding him."

"Do you think there might ever be a way?"

"We've talked about it. You know Ed. He never gives up when he's set his mind on something." Alphonse said. "We are thinking about going on another trip to learn more about alchemy. We've been all over Amestris, but we haven't explored other countries. Ed's getting restless, and I'm almost strong enough now."

"You're almost strong enough, and I have a hunger to ride trains again." Edward was walking up to the fire pit with Havoc in tow. Between the two of them, they had five bottles of wine. "You know what's really stupid? Mustang here thought one bottle of wine would be enough for seven people. Luckily, Pinako has respectable stores."

Pinako nodded with a wry chuckle. Her glasses shimmered orange.

Havoc was grinning. "I told him he should bring whiskey, but he never does what I tell him."

"That's because I'm your superior officer," Roy grumbled. "I tell _you_ what to do."

"Sure thing, Chief." Havoc started to line up the bottles on a stump. "Now, do you want white or red? Not that I can tell which is which very well in the dark."

Havoc was right about it being hard to tell what was in each bottle. They sorted out most of them by color, but it was impossible to read the labels clearly in the dark. Edward and Havoc fought with the corks, and everyone agreed to take their chances with the luck of the draw. White or red. Dry or sweet. Havoc played the bartender, selecting a bottle at random for each glass he poured, and Edward handed them out. In the end, they all ended up with something winelike in a cup. They toasted across the crackling fire to old friends and continued reunions.

Roy took an experimental sip from his cup. Definitely red, and dry. It was pleasantly sour and crisp with just a hint of bite. It might have been the one he brought. He didn't need to know.

Havoc sat beside him and Edward picked the seat on Alphonse's other side. Edward frowned and wrinkled his nose after his first sip. Havoc took his sip, licked his lips, and almost downed the rest of the cup in one gulp. Alphonse chuckled at them both.

Night fell. Fireflies flickered. Roy savored the spreading warmth in his limbs.

He had a heated discussion with the Elrics that turned into an argument more than once about the principles of alchemy and how they related to the possibility of transmuting water into wine. This lasted for almost an hour until Havoc cut in and demanded they talk about something that was comprehensible to him—like guns, or women. Edward baulked at the idea of discussing anything female. Havoc teased him. Alphonse saved them from coming to blows by asking about Havoc's legs. The Second Lieutenant was more than glad to drop everything and expound at length on the subject.

Pinako yawned and excused herself, saying she was just too old to stay up late these days. Winry and Hawkeye escorted her back inside the house, and came back hand in hand, talking in low voices. Roy watched them, hoping very much that none of their feminine bonding involved talking about him. Unless it was good things. What would Hawkeye say about him to a female companion anyway?

When the girls decided to dance, Alphonse was the only one of the men willing to join in. They each took one of his hands and pulled him to his feet. The three of them danced around the fire with the dogs prancing at their heels, excitedly trying to take part. It was a very silly dance—more giggling and stumbling than actual dancing. But he couldn't look away. Hawkeye's completely unguarded laughter and the motion of her dress around her legs were both entrancing. He looked sideways at Edward and was glad he wasn't alone in his fascination. Except the kid wasn't looking at Hawkeye.

"You and her a thing yet?" he asked, nodding in Winry's direction.

"None of your damn business." Edward crossed his arms over his chest and turned the tables on him with a spiteful glare. "What about you and Miss Hawkeye? You two a thing yet?"

"None of your damn business," he shot back.

It was Havoc's turn to laugh loudest. His cigarette dangled precariously from his lips. Roy cherished a secret fantasy that involved his second lieutenant choking on his cancer-stick before he could say anything that might be humiliating.

"Do you have something you'd like to say, Havoc?" Roy set down his wine and pronounced his friend's name with pointed severity.

Havoc's smile was devious in the firelight. "I was going to ask, when were you two _not_ a thing? Because I think I missed that stage."

"We are _not_—"

"Oh puh-lease!" Havoc interrupted before he could finish. "Hell, I wish you _were_ sexing! Then you'd stop looking at her like that."

Edward snorted into his cup. He managed to rein in his mirth until he met Havoc's eyes. Then they both started to snicker uncontrollably. Roy scowled at both of them and decided he needed more drink.

"I do not look at her," he muttered into his glass. "And please never say the word 'sexing' again."

Edward was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "You should see your face right now, Colonel. It's like angry Chihuahua meets awkward tomato."

The statement brought forth paroxysms of new laughter from Havoc. He buried his face in his hands repeating it to himself delightedly. Roy had a feeling the phrase would make its way around the office within a week.

The women across the fire danced their unsteady circles with Alphonse. Roy watched her and decided the situation could be worse. At least he had something nice to look at. The wine was making him feel bubbly and heedless. He wanted to take her hands and inveigle her into his lap. He wanted to be better acquainted with her laughing mouth.

What was the worst thing Havoc could say? What _was_ he even saying? He snapped his attention back to the conversation around him.

"Oh Ed!" Havoc started waving his hands, sloshing a little wine from his cup. "I forgot to tell you about the guy at the train station."

"Oh for the love of God, don't tell him about that!" Roy cried.

But they had already decided to ignore him. Roy glowered between them, wondering which of them he should murder first. Probably Havoc. Havoc started everything. He squeezed his temples and silently prayed she was too far away to hear anything.

"No, it was great, Sir," Havoc insisted loudly. "One of your most shining moments. Ed needs to hear."

"Ed doesn't need to hear."

Edward leaned closer, and Havoc began his story. "So we are at the station in Central, waiting for the train." He pointed her conspicuously. "And she's wearing that dress, and it's bad enough that the Colonel won't stop staring at her ass."

"I was not!"

"But then this guy walks past, and he's checking her out. Like, seriously staring." Havoc did his best impression. It looked rather zombie-like. "And the Colonel just decked him! Right in the middle of the train station! _Everybody _turned to look. Oh, it was the best!"

"I didn't _deck_ him."

Havoc was chuckling again. "She whirls around, all like, 'what the hell, sir?' And the best defense he can come up with is that he was stretching and _accidentally_ hit him."

Edward was laughing so hard he could barely speak. "What? How stupid can he be?"

"I'm sitting right here."

"I know right?!" Havoc cried. "Seriously Ed, you should have seen it."

"Did she believe him?" he asked.

"Seemed like it. Although between you are me I think she was just too exasperated to deal with his shenanigans," Havoc said conspiratorially. "And this is why I _never_ look at Lieutenant Hawkeye below the neck. Plenty of other girls out there that I don't have to risk my life over."

"Stop making me sound psychotic."

"You are a little psychotic about her, but that's okay," Havoc waved his hand dismissively. "We all like you anyway. Mostly."

"Oh, so you are listening to me again," Roy hissed. "I guess that's an improvement."

The shadows around the fire moved like wraiths. The three of them nursed their wine and watched the dancers. Alphonse had sat down, exhausted and grinning. Winry was giggling and hiccupping adorably. She stumbled onto Hawkeye's shoulder, and Hawkeye enclosed the younger girl in her arms, tucking her close and holding her upright. Her bun was starting to unravel, and she was wobbling like a newborn foal—an elegant creature that hadn't learned to walk. Their dresses smeared, and their hair spilled together, gold on gold.

Edward tore his eyes away, muttering. "Geesh Colonel. Does she still have no idea you're in love with her?"

She probably had some idea after the past week. Tonight he was going to find a way to get her alone and see if she tasted like wine. White or red. Maybe she would let him run his fingers through her hair and tremble in his arms. Maybe he'd find where she was keeping her gun.

"I don't have to tell you anything," he growled. "What about you? I don't see you doing any better with that mechanic. Does she still have no idea you're in love with her?"

Edward scowled, but he didn't contest the accusation. "_You're_ supposed to be a mature adult. Don't you have to set an example?"

Roy held up his cup and gave him a sardonic half-smile. "I've got news for you, Ed. These things don't get any easier with age. Get over it."

"Mmm," Havoc nodded, still transfixed by the women. "Wouldn't it be great if they kissed right now?"

This time Roy pushed him backwards off the log.

* * *

She barely suppressed a laugh when Havoc meandered into the doorframe of the spare bedroom and stumbled. Cursing vehemently, he whirled and kicked the frame so hard he yowled in pain and doubled back. Then he limped over to one of the twin beds and plopped down on it. Some time during the night he had misplaced his cane. At first, he was distraught. He pouted on his log and howled incessantly for someone to find his cane, but then he forgot what he was upset about and simply bumbled around without it. She had to admit, he was doing well for an inebriated man.

"I don't think I've had this much fun since that time we celebrated Fury's birthday back in East City," he said delightedly. "Damn, that was so long ago. How'd we get so _old_, Colonel?"

"Speak for yourself." The Colonel sat down on the other bed across from him. "I am not old, and I never intend to be old."

"But you're like, what, thirty or something? Man, if I was your age—"

"Do you want me to hit you again, Havoc?" The Colonel snapped dangerously.

She stood in the doorway watching them and wondering how the two bed situation was going to play out. The Rockbells had one spare bedroom with two tiny twin beds that looked only marginally more comfortable than military bunks. The couch in the living room might have actually been the most accommodating option, besides the lack of privacy.

The Colonel patted the spot beside him on his bed. "Come here Lieutenant. I won't bite."

She obeyed him, perching herself on the edge and crossing her legs demurely. There were risks here. Her brain felt like it was full of sticky clouds. She couldn't pull them apart.

"Her? Yes you would." Havoc grinned. "You'd like to bite her up into einsy-weinsy little pieces."

He held up his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate what einsy-weinsy size looked like, squinted through them and chuckled. Then he lay down on the bed. It was so short his feet dangled off the end.

"Dang Elric-size bed," he muttered.

He turned away from them and drew his legs up into a fetal position. Before long he was snoring.

She raised an eyebrow and looked at the Colonel. "He doesn't drink very often, does he?"

"No, I don't think so." Mustang leaned back against the wall and looked at her. "I'm feeling pretty good myself."

"Are you going to pass out next?" she asked wryly.

"Nope." He shook his head. "Can't pass out when I've got you here with me. It's not every day we find ourselves alone in the dark."

"We are alone together quite frequently," she reminded him.

"Stop evading my point, Hawkeye, or I will report you for insubordination," he muttered with a wave of his hand. "You always evade my point right when I want to be particularly . . . pointy. You just blink those big doe eyes, and expect me to forget what I was talking about and—why—why won't you marry me?"

She blinked at him, nonplussed. "Huh?"

"I asked you once." He reached out and touched her hair, straightening all the pieces that had fallen out of place. "I'm sure you remember."

She fidgeted with the flower-petal folds of her dress and forced herself not to lean in to his touch. "I didn't know if you meant it."

He scowled at her as if she had just uttered a particularly vulgar slur. "I can't believe you would doubt my sincerity! You, of all people."

She looked away, studying the pattern of the quilt on the bed. In the darkness it was all black and white. Maybe, in truth, she hadn't ever doubted him. Maybe she knew he hadn't asked out of misplaced guilt or gallantry. Maybe she didn't want to examine what that meant. She didn't want to pull back the cover on her fears.

"If you were so sincere, why didn't you ever bring it up again?" she retorted.

He harrumphed "I'm bringing it up now. What if I was serious now?"

"You want to marry me?"

"Yes!" He looked at her like she was being a particularly truculent child, refusing to learn the lesson.

"But we've never even—"

He pinned her down with a searing gaze. "Look me in the eyes and tell me 'we've never even' again."

She sucked in a breath and bowed her head. He was right. There was a reason she couldn't end that sentence. The shadows on the wall rustled and embraced. They could have been the only ones awake in the world. The silence felt like a living beast crouched in the uncharted space between them, breathing away the minutes. They had been together for such a long time, and they had learned how to not say things so well. It was a refined art in which they skated the edges of meaningful glances and practiced the dance of bite-sized touches. She knew how to act within the confines of that system. It was comfortable. It wasn't enough anymore.

She crossed the divide first. She scooted her hand across the bed until it alighted atop his. He turned his wrist and closed his fingers around her palm. A new sort of tension took up residence in her chest.

He grinned at her and tilted an eyebrow suggestively. "Seems like we're gonna be here for a little while, and there's only one very small bed."

"You can't be serious." She rolled her eyes and gave him a reproving glare. "We are guests in their house, Colonel. We can't do anything . . . unseemly."

"Oh, Lieutenant, I love it when you act all prim and proper," he whispered. "Makes me want you even more."

He started caressing the furrows in her palm with intent. She swallowed and tried not to make incriminating noises, but he was studying her face with those eyes, and knowing he wanted more than just her hand made it difficult to breathe, much less speak. Her reaction seemed to please him.

"Does this bother you?" he asked her teasingly.

"I . . . no . . . but . . ." She gasped when he started to kiss the lacy pattern of veins on the inside of her wrist.

He pressed her palm to the side of his face and regarded at her with that dark, hungry look that worsened the tension in her chest. His eyelashes felt like tiny bristle brushes tickling her skin. "Nothing unseemly happening here."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. He started inching her closer. When she gave him protests, he hefted her bodily across the bed until she was very much in his lap, and she was reminded—despite his careful façade of indolence—of how strong he actually was. He wove an arm around her waist and started to free her hair from its bun, letting it cascade in disarray over her shoulders. The muscles in his chest were warm and unyielding against her back, and she felt his heart picking up speed against the curve of her spine. She took in shallow breaths and grasped feebly at the last threads of her composure.

"What if Havoc wakes up?" she demanded, trying rather half-heartedly to push away from him.

"Let me think . . ." He trapped her hand against his chest and buried his face in her hair. "I don't care."

The gravelly note of desire in his voice thrumming against her ear set her shivering and destroyed the last bastion of her resistance. He smelled like aftershave, spirits and smoke, and his fingers traveling from her waist to her hips were gentle but persistent. He kissed a path of fire from her ear to her clavicle, eliciting noises from her that she was powerless to suppress. The tantalizing trail of his mouth continued to her shoulder, teasing the strap of her dress down over her arm. She shuddered and told herself she should probably stop him before they got out of hand, but all she could manage was an incoherent murmur. She didn't want him to stop.

And then he was kissing her mouth, purging every thought before she could form it properly. She told herself it had to be the wine that was making her feel so light-headed. It had to be the wine. Roy tasted like wine.

The bed creaked when he rolled her beneath him, surrounding and flooding her. He tangled his fingers in her hair and kissed her relentlessly. She responded unbidden, teasing him with her tongue until he made a low growling sound that vibrated through her. When he insinuated his knee between her legs, she was struck again by the dizzying truth that he wanted her. Badly. Roy Mustang—The Colonel—the man who commanded her to protect his back and never once treated her as anything but his dearest subordinate for so many years. He'd already asked everything from her. He had asked for her life, her devotion, her skills, her trust. Even her love. And she had always given him what he needed. Now, he was claiming his final piece. Part of her always knew they would come to this, but even in her most private fantasies, it had never been so overwhelming. She never knew she would be insatiable. She never knew she could make him wild with need.

She couldn't even control her own hands. They took on a life of their own, searching for the buttons of his shirt in the dark. She rose up to meet his onslaught with her own hunger, and they fought back and forth to overtake each other.

His hand fluttered down, across her stomach, over the hem of her dress, and came to rest just above her knee. She met his eyes in the darkness and time dragged to a halt. Just two fingers above her knee was all it took. He drew in a ragged gulp of air and ran his tongue over his teeth. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began to trace a heated pattern on the inside of her thigh, higher and higher. Her body seized and shrank down to the space of his fingertips on her skin. Her mouth fell open. She twitched and slithered beneath him. He held her still and fastened his lips to the pulse point in her throat. She knew they were both acutely aware he was crossing a line. His breath on her neck was starting to hitch, and his arms shook like he was losing his tenuous grasp on restraint. When he slipped her skirt aside, she actually heard herself whimper, but sounds were as distant and irrelevant as shadows on the wall.

She was falling to pieces. She was about to take flight.

"Um . . ." He pulled away abruptly and looked at her. His eyes burned with unconcealed lust, but he closed them and raked a hand through his hair. "Now is your chance to tell me to stop. I don't think I can if we go further."

The thunder had become louder. How had she not even noticed? Lighting lit up the room for an instant, and she saw him fully—poised, and powerful as panther, with his shirt unbuttoned to his naval. He was still breathing heavily, but his gaze was sharp and watchful. If she told him no, he would take his hands and his mouth away. She didn't want that. Gods, that would be the worst thing.

The cough from the other side of the room sent them to opposite sides of the bed in an instant.

"Blasted thunder," Havoc's groggy voice muttered.

They watched him sit up with wide-eyed, stricken expressions. Roy shot her a look, and she fixed the straps of her dress, not that it would help her rumpled hair. Or his shirt. She was fairly certain there was enough evidence for any fully conscious and sober person to incriminate them, but thankfully Havoc was neither of those things.

He rubbed his eyes and searched blindly for his cane. "As long as I'm up, I'm going to find a bathroom."

It took him a minute to remember the cane was still missing, but in his drowsy state he took it all in stride. After groping around ineffectually for a moment, he stood up with a yawn and shuffled out of the room.

Roy put his head in his hands and groaned. She drew her knees up to her chest and clasped her arms around them. She could empathize with his noise of frustration. She could still feel where his hands had been.

"I knew I should have brought only you," he muttered. "Silly really. I thought everyone might like to see him walking."

She looked across the darkness at him. He was a barely visible shadow, but he still had his head in his hands.

"I think they did," she said. "I'm glad everybody is so happy."

"You know what made happy, Riza?" his shadow said. "When I got back my sight, seeing you again made me happy. It was like realizing for the first time everything I had been making myself ignore for so long. You should have left me long ago, but you were still there, and I was such a fool for throwing away so many chances. I don't know why I didn't tell you every day how much I—"

She put a tentative hand on his shoulder. "I knew."

"I still should have said it. You deserve that much. I made you put up with all of my stupid antics, follow me without question, and risk your life on more than one occasion." He smiled ruefully. "And now you probably think I'm an animal because I can't keep my hands off you."

She shook her head. "I could always shoot you if I didn't want it."

He laughed, some of his humor finally returning. "I promise you, some day, I will treat you like a lady. If you'll let me."

Shuffling footsteps heralded Havoc's re-entry. He squinted at them blearily. They sat still under the scrutiny. After a moment of silence he extended his hand and pointed a finger at the Colonel's chest.

"I don't know what's going on over there, but do not have sex in this room," he said.

And with that he slumped into his bed and rolled over. Before long his soft snores indicated he was asleep again. She was only a little mortified.

"You heard him, Hawkeye," the Colonel whispered. "Stop putting your pretty paws all over me."

She raised an eyebrow. "The more you talk like that, the easier it gets."

"Ouch." He put a hand to his chest and reeled back. "Why don't you come over here and say that to my face?"

"I can't. It would wake up Havoc if I made you scream."

Another flash of lightning lit up his face. His jaw dropped, and he stared at her with wordless incredulity. It felt like old times. Banter was a comforting routine for them.

"Close your mouth sir, and start treating me like a lady," she said. "We've either got to share this bed nicely, or one of us needs to go back to the couch."

He shook his head sadly. "Treat you like a lady I shall, but there are some things I know I just can't do. I'll take the couch."

He stood up and looked down at her. With surprising tenderness he reached out and ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing it back into place. Then he brushed his lips against her forehead and left her sitting in the suddenly cold and empty darkness.

"And don't let Havoc do anything to you in here," he said from the doorway. "Or I'll have to kill him."

She felt the grin pulling at her lips and surrendered to it.

She settled herself on the bed, atop the covers because the room was sweltering. She was too alive to sleep. Her body felt drawn taut—the same feeling as flexing her finger on the trigger of a gun—waiting. The silence buzzed and sent ripples over her skin. Her heart thudded in her throat, and the blood rushed in her ears.

She allowed herself to remember that rainy night months ago. At the time, she had thought that instance of intimacy was what it was to have him completely. Comfort would be all he ever sought from her, and he had nothing to give her in return. She had accepted his grief. She put herself back together on the cornerstone of that fact, and she had endured. Now she knew, she never had him that night. She had the broken pieces of a blind man clinging to his last touchstone. Now she knew she only had to reach out, and he would give her everything.

But he would take all of her too. Roy Mustang would settle for no less, and he wouldn't let her keep any of her walls. He had surrounded her in the darkness and deftly conquered all of her resistance, possessing her, making her body rise and hum with the slightest touch. She couldn't be the terse and steady-handed Lieutenant. He had ripped through that barrier with ease.

She knew she had always belonged to him, so why was this a surprise? Why was it a surprise that they collided like magnets? Why was it a surprise that she couldn't hold herself back even if she wanted to? She exhaled shakily. It wouldn't be long now.

When the rain started its steady drumming, she was finally growing tired enough to sleep. She closed her eyes and allowed the darkness to surround her.


	3. Collision

Geh :: This chapter is easy to predict, but I hope you will like it anyway. Hopefully. I'm pretty nervous about it. If it's bad, I promise I won't do it again.

* * *

**Chapter Three – Collision**

* * *

Roy woke at dawn feeling like his brain had grown a layer of fuzz in the night. He stretched and nearly rolled off the couch before he remembered where he was.

Oh, the wine.

Oh, Riza.

He slapped a hand to his forehead, remembering. He had very nearly taken her on a cot in the Rockbell's spare bedroom with Havoc sleeping only a few feet away. Probably would have ripped that pretty white dress too. He also remembered asking her to marry him. Again. How much of that disgraceful behavior could he blame on the drink?

Probably not enough.

He growled inarticulately and sank lower into the sofa wondering if embarrassment could kill a person. What would she think of him? Would she be angry at what he had done, or that he hadn't finished what he started?

And suddenly, there was a dog in his face. His view of the living room was eclipsed by a wet black nose and a formidable set of canine teeth. Moist panting ruffled his bangs.

"Hello, Hayate," he mumbled, pushing the shiba inu away from him. "Go bother your master. You probably see her naked all the time, don't you? Lucky bastard."

Hayate whined and shoved his nose back in Roy's face.

"Urgh, why!?" Roy crossed his arms over his face. "Do I look blonde and female to you?"

The dog was not to be deterred. He started licking Roy's arms.

"That's it!" He sprang up with a snarl. "We'll go and wake her up together!"

He lumbered over to the spare bedroom and cracked the door open. The room was bathed in light and last night's raindrops sparkled on the window. A Havoc-shaped lump was snoring softly in one of the beds. The other bed was fastidiously made. And empty. He couldn't say if he was relieved or disappointed.

He looked down at her dog. "Where is she?"

Hayate wagged his tail and said nothing.

Seeing as her dog would not be forthcoming with information, he decided it couldn't hurt to brush his teeth while he planned his search. His teeth felt almost as fuzzy as his brain, and the sour wine taste clinging to his tongue was downright revolting. He found a bathroom and managed to dig up some spare toothbrushes without making too much noise. Hayate parked himself in the doorway and watched ritual quizzically, tail still wagging with such exuberance that his whole body vibrated. It was unnerving to receive such close scrutiny from a dog. Dogs didn't blink enough. What did she normally do to make him stop staring?

He scrubbed his teeth until he no longer tasted any trace of wine and examined his reflection in the mirror above the bathroom sink. His looked somewhat less than suave and handsome this morning. He looked like he had aged five years in the night. Splashing water on his face didn't improve matters, but the cold was a refreshing shock to the senses. Consciousness stabbed into him pitilessly. It felt like sandpaper behind his eyes.

And the dog was still staring.

He wandered back into the empty living room still contemplating his lieutenant's mysterious absence. The house was silent save for the clicking of Hayate's nails on the floorboards. He combed his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair and tried to form a coherent string of thoughts that would lead him to her. It was hard to focus when his mind kept doggedly returning to the events of last night. The sounds she made. Her silky hair pouring through his fingers. Her nimble hands tugging on his shirt. The luscious path of skin on the inside of her thigh. Other places inside her thigh he would have liked to touch.

Holy lecherous Hell on a stick . . . He needed to get out of the gutter. At least for the moment. He could dredge up memories at any time and torment himself at his leisure. Right now, he had a mission. He dug his nails into his palms until the pain brought his present surroundings into focus.

That was when he noticed the back door resting slightly ajar. It swayed slightly and knocked against the frame with every breeze. Hayate followed him over to investigate.

He propped open the door. The yard was tranquil and damp from the recent rain. Last night's fire was only ashes, and discarded wine bottles congregated beside the logs looking desolate and water-logged. A rabbit in the grass caught sight of them and bounced away. Hayate's ears perked up and his body lurched forward, beginning to lunge, but then he stopped and stood still. He looked up at Roy, smiling mouth open, pink tongue lolling.

Roy shook his head. "She's trained you too well."

Hayate twitched his tail and hopped down onto the grass.

He started exploring for clues while the dog did his business. The back of the house needed new paint and a good pruning. An army of weeds had taken over in the shade of the steps and started to annex the side of the building, ever expanding their domain. A pair of rusted garden shears lay buried and forsaken in the foliage. Beyond the fire pit, an explosion of dandelions carpeted the yard, leading up to an old lightning-struck elm that stooped over a tiny shed.

The most likely answer to his lieutenant's whereabouts was the dirt path that wove its way from the yard to a wooded area beyond. Hadn't Winry mentioned something about a secreted lake nestled in the forest last night? He vaguely remembered Hawkeye showing interest in the subject. Would she go there?

As if to answer his question, Hayate walked over and put his nose to the path. After giving it a thorough scent inspection, he barked and looked down the trail in the direction of the woods.

Roy scratched him thoughtfully. "I'm going to go get her. You just wait here. Don't wake anyone else up."

He regarded the diminutive creature with stern authority. Hayate tilted his head and stared up at him.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered. "I'm talking to a dog like he's people."

He scooped Hayate up and put him back inside the house. "You will never repeat this to anyone."

The dog wuffed and sat down dutifully. They watched each other, and he had the distinct impression the dog had a prescient understanding of the situation. Roy closed the door and decided Black Hayate would be rewarded when he got back. _If_ he got back.

He started down the path to the lake determinedly. Hopefully, she was there. Hopefully, she wasn't mad at him for his behavior last night. Hopefully, she wouldn't shoot him. There were an alarming number of hopefullys to consider.

He wasn't sorry for loving her or wanting her. It was beyond obvious at this point anyway. He was sorry he had expressed his wanting under less than desirable circumstances. He was sorry that the jumbled utterances that spilled from his mouth between frantic kisses were never the fluent verses he envisioned in his mind. He was sorry that every time he asked her to marry him it always came out wrong, and she always gave him that bewildered look that made his heart sink.

He had a passing thought that he probably should have changed his clothes, and combed his hair. He probably still smelled like wine and campfire. He probably should have prepared his words, but he couldn't wait. He had to find her.

* * *

She pulled in a breath and sunk below the glassy surface, smooth as a pebble, light as a leaf. For just an instant sound vanished, and she was a weightless new creature suspended in the void—empty of thought, fluid of form, waiting to know her name.

A few languid kicks brought her gliding through the water to the center of the lake. The bottom was too deep to touch in the middle, a depthless indigo that swallowed up the light of the sun. She gazed down, hovering, and watched the reflection of the sky shiver and dance as she treaded to keep herself in place. The minutes slowed to a drip, and the morning took on a timeless stillness that calmed the ceaseless rattle of her brain. She took another breath and floated through cool clear space, meditating on nothing but the liquid cadence of her pulse.

She had found the lake exactly where Winry said it would be, down a faint trail about two miles from the house. It was a bean-shaped pool wedged in the crook of a dusky hillside, and it was unexpectedly opalescent blue. The near shore was a tumble of flat-topped boulders, and the rest of its circumference was fringed with a thick border of grass and trees. Weeping willows dragged their flotsam limbs through the shallows. Dragonflies skimmed and nipped at the surface. Sunlight and shadow wagged an ever-shifting war with every new ripple.

At first, she had sat on one of the flat rocks and gazed down into the lake, hypnotized. Then, she had taken off her shoes and dipped her feet in the water. She wriggled her toes in the squishy silt at the bottom, listening to the boisterous songs of the birds in the forest and savoring the smells of pine and wet earth. Silver-sided fish touched their lips to her ankles and scattered when she breathed too deeply. The sun mounted the horizon, beam by beam climbing up, and a waning moon still hung high in the sky, loathe to give up her position of prominence.

Troubling thoughts blazed in her temples like wildfire, burning through her synapses and taking root just behind her eyes. They scattered when she blinked, but they all came back to him.

She knew him once.

She knew him when he clapped his hand on her shoulder companionably, when he narrowed his gaze and concentrated on his target, and when he grabbed catnaps between marathoning administrative tasks. She even knew him when his eyes were bloodshot and raw with tears. She knew his laughter and his silence. His eyes, and his hands, and the timbre of his voice. His thoughts and ambitions, commitments and fears. She had known everything there was to know, and it was simple and perfect—closed like a circle and destined to endure.

She never knew him like this.

Insistent and captivating, and pulling her open at the seams—making her helpless and unable to hide—making her cry out in need—making her fierce and feral.

Had anyone else known him like this?

Did she want to know him?

She felt parched and hollowed out. The water lapped at her legs, cool and inviting.

It might have been for the thrill, or maybe her primal self always knew how it would end. Either way, she slipped out of her clothes and folded them neatly on a rock beside her shoes. The last thing she removed was the leather holster at her thigh. The holster made her more than just Riza. The holster made her Lieutenant Hawkeye, his right arm woman. The one he knew best. She set it above everything else.

The morning air flowed in chilly currents on the skin of her belly, raising gooseflesh. The faceless moon hung high in the sky, and she was bare. White arms, golden hair, and blistered toes. Herself with all the jagged edges removed.

She jumped from the rock and sliced through the placid lake like a knife. Water drummed in her ears. It stripped away thoughts and reduced her to a being of sensation, concerned only with the bend and contract of her muscles and the rhythm of her lungs. The coordinated effort of swimming was the anesthetic that she needed to regain peace.

After making her rounds around the lake, she floated and watched the sun rise. Gossamer veils of mist dissipated, and shadows became more distinct as the world lightened. The lake cradled her, and she slipped into a contented trance. Once, a twig snapped loudly, causing her to look around with a start, but it was only a squirrel leaping from branch to branch above the lake. She lay back in the water and focused on the rise and fall of her chest.

Of course it was a squirrel. What had she expected it to be?

At last, she decided to get out of the lake before she turned pruney. She swam back to the rock where she had stashed all her belongings and nearly climbed out. She was still basking in the serenity she had achieved, humming tunelessly and shaking water out of her hair. As an afterthought, she took a cursory survey of her surroundings, chiding herself for being so lax. Snipers couldn't afford such luxuries. It went against every—

She stopped cold, stifling a gasp before it could form because she was Riza Hawkeye, and Riza Hawkeye did _not_ gasp in surprise.

He was sitting atop her carefully folded clothing pile and smirking at her. She regained her wits enough to cross her arms over her chest, but she knew the attempt was probably feeble. Arms made poor shields. She didn't know he even had such laser-like focus in his repertoire of expressions. They locked eyes—the gauntlet was down. Who would break and look away first?

Roy Mustang broke first.

His eyes drifted over her languorously. "Thank every god in heaven for eyesight."

She was still stumbling over her shock. Nothing was processing. Her mind was like a crashing bicycle that refused to do anything but spin aimlessly. "C-Colonel. How long have you been sitting there?"

His black eyes danced mischievously. "Not terribly long, Lieutenant. You look pale. Are you troubled?"

He looked like a panther again, crouched and showing his teeth when he smiled. She watched him watch a bead of water fall from her hair and descend into the valley between her breasts. His gaze was scorching. Her skin prickled, but she fought the impulse to shy away. She was not about to start stammering or retreat from battle. He didn't have the upper hand yet, even if he did have the high ground . . . and all the weapons . . . and clothes. Those were trifling inconveniences.

She gave him a menacing glare that would have made most men quail. "You could stop staring, Sir. It's rude."

"I agree, it's pretty rude, but I don't think I will." He set his chin on his hands and didn't look away. "It's too bad all your firearms are up here with me."

"Colonel," she said in her most level deadpan. "I swear to God, I will kill you."

"Oh, Hawkeye," he purred. "Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful when you get all angry and start threatening my life?"

"It's shortening by the moment, so enjoy it while you have it."

He shook his head and chuckled like her promise of retribution was merely an amusing anecdote. "I can guarantee I am enjoying. I hope that counts for something. But let's be real here, Riza. I hold the purse strings, so what are you going to do to get your clothes back?"

"Kill you quickly," she growled, edging closer to the rock where he sat.

"Oh please try, Riza," he breathed.

Famous last words.

The Colonel grinned down at her, smug and salacious on his perch. She moved until she was just beneath him, marshaling her confidence and all the low cunning she could muster. Then, one at a time, she raised her hands.

His throat twitched convulsively, and his mouth fell open. She flashed him a dazzling smile that betrayed none of her apprehension. She knew she had nice breasts, and she had caught him enough times to know he didn't always look at her face when she was speaking, but she never thought she would be using her assets as bait before. It was a risky gambit that had the potential to backfire spectacularly, but she had never lacked for courage. He thought he was the only one who knew how to play this game.

One look at his arrested countenance and she knew she had successfully turned the tables on him. He tried and failed to speak several times, but each time his voice cracked and died away. His eyes could have melted through steel. The undiluted longing he couldn't conceal sent a treacherous lance of heat from her sternum to her stomach. She nearly forgot her own composure, but thankfully the next part was easy.

She rose up, hooked her fingers into his collar, and pulled him down until their mouths grazed. The kiss was as light as the sunlight on her skin. Every touch of his lips was excruciatingly gentle, as if she might turn into glass and shatter if he wasn't careful. It made her shiver more than the cold bite of the morning air. She tightened her grip on his collar and deepened the kiss, demanding his whole mouth and forcing him into the fire. The caution in him crumbled away. He responded to her demands with demands of his own. They both surrendered to voracious need. But then, as soon as he reached out to touch her, she braced herself and yanked.

Roy Mustang hit the water with a splash and came up squalling like a soaked cat.

It was Riza's turn to smirk. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, and slithered away before he could grab her and exact vengeance. With a few kicks, she was across the lake, trying and failing to contain her laughter.

* * *

Roy ground his teeth together and glared at his laughing lieutenant.

"Now _you_ are going to die," he growled.

He hated hated _hated_ having water used against him, at any time. Although, to be fair, he should have seen it coming. There was a devious glimmer in her eyes when she had kissed him that he was all too willing to ignore because of naked wetness.

But there were certain creamy, shapely, mouthwatering perks to the situation. She was still very much naked and wet. It stirred his body and made him ache just to touch her, but it also brought to mind unbearable questions. Why in hell hadn't he tried to maneuver her out of her clothes before? _This_ was what he had been missing. And for what? Atonement or masochism? In retrospect, the clearly defined lines of their relationship seemed very stupid and rather more like self-indulgent torture than anything else.

Even before he had shared her bed, he knew that she was perfect. Even in blindness—when his fingers traced and memorized a map of skin—when the smell of her took him out of the purgatory of grief—he knew what she was. She could have driven him insane if he allowed himself to dwell on the particulars. Did she embody his desires, or had his desires molded to her shape over time? Most nights he tried not to think about his latent attractions because thinking only led to cold showers and frustration, but now he couldn't remember why keeping his distance had seemed so damn important. He should have given in to her years ago.

He wouldn't deny anything now.

His irritated glare transformed into a predatory grin. Slowly, so she could watch and anticipate what was going to happen to her, he cast off his wet coat and tossed it onto the shore. Then he pulled off his shoes, which took an eon because they were soaked. He had a similarly epic struggle with his socks, and then at last, he shrugged out of his shirt and pants. It might have been a rash decision to meet her on her undressed level, but her reaction was emboldening. She tried to maintain an expressionless distance, but her gaze slipped more than once, and her eyes were approving. So much for changing his clothes and bathing. So much for finding where he had thrown his shoes later. He couldn't have cared less.

When he had reached the end of the trail and found her in the lake all of his hastily compiled plans derailed, and his thoughts had come to a screeching, smashing, catastrophically immoral halt. It was hard enough to think clearly with mental images distracting him. Having the real thing suddenly present itself without warning wiped his eloquent, tactical mind blank.

She wasn't sitting by the lake. She was in it. And her clothes were neatly folded on a rock. All of the implications of that observation felt like tiny bullets destroying him. The heat in his body spiraled downward. His knees jellified. His lungs constricted. His heart thrashed like a mad beast trying to escape the confines of his chest.

There was a reason he had walked here. He was going to say words. Words about last night. Something like that. Something soft and curvy. Words.

It all came back to the fact that he couldn't get a very good look from where he was standing.

He had wanted to sit and watch her. Every instinct screamed at him to find a place to hide and leer as long as he liked, but he knew he had to make his presence known. It was the only fair and chivalrous thing to do, and he had resolved last night to treat her respectfully. But that didn't mean he couldn't tease her. So he had sat and waited for her to notice him while trying to be as respectful as it was possible to be under the circumstances.

He knew her anger was feigned the instant she didn't get out of the water and point a gun at his head. Naked or not, she would have done it. He would have let her shoot him and died happy. This was a far better alternative. Even her prank was bearable if it meant he would get his hands on her. She hadn't retreated very far. She was contemplating him with wide amber eyes and worrying her lip between her teeth.

"You scared yet?" he asked.

She set her chin stubbornly, and her eyes turned steely and defiant. "Never."

He slid through the water toward her with single-minded purpose. She swam away, easily keeping just out of reach of his pursuit. He realized immediately that she was a stronger swimmer, and being lighter and smaller gave her an edge. Evading him wasn't even a challenge for her. But he was relentless, and if he knew anything, it was that having inexorable determination always paid off. He also suspected his motivation was more compelling than hers.

He caught her against his chest and closed his arms like a vice. She squirmed wonderfully. Wonderful because he had to pin her against him. Wonderful because there was nothing to separate them. No fabric, no weapons, no uncertainty. She was wiry and supple as elastic, and her every motion was arousing. She twisted in his grasp, and he strummed the piano-key lines of her ribcage, seamlessly flowing into the svelte contour of her abdomen. At first touch, nothing about her body acquiesced to caresses. Her muscles flexed like molten iron beneath durable skin that held firm against the pads of his thumbs. He went exploring for soft and yielding places—the velvet nook behind her earlobe that smelled like gunpowder and roses—the downy undersides of her breasts that he only skirted with his fingernails. She made purring noises and let her eyes fall closed. Every discovery was his to keep.

He found the fray in the fabric of her neck and pressed his lips to the smoky white scar as if he could drink away the disturbing memory it elicited. He had always known she would sacrifice herself if duty required it, but the concept was abstract. He had never tangibly understood what she was capable of until they cut her throat, and she made him wait. He had thought their bond was limitless. He had thought he knew her. On that day, she had pulled the string of his trust until it snapped taut and started to unravel him. Until it hurt just to breathe. He let her go when his entire being shouted to hold on—all because her eyes had forced him wait. She broke every piece of him, and he had never been angrier at her. If he had words beyond anguished screaming, he would have raged at her.

_How dare you try to leave me? How dare you? _

Her willfulness when she was dying still amazed and haunted him. There was no surrender in the soldier he held in his arms. If she had died before he could kiss her, would she still have belonged to him? Would she ever belong to him? If he were still a blind man he would never have to see the scars, and maybe he would never have to wonder. Her skin was hot and liquid to his tongue. She tasted like the musky lake water and questions he didn't yet want to ask.

"Don't." Her voice was as soft as the hand that brushed against his cheek. "Please don't think about that right now."

When she kissed him, he knew his steadfast reservoir of self-control had run dry. He combed his fingers through her hair, down her spine, and over the swell of her hips, drawing her desperately closer. He needed her closer. He needed her as close as it was possible for two separate creatures to be. He went on a tactile journey over every plane and angle of her architecture, and found more yielding places. She rocked against him, sending fresh waves of heat crashing through him. The sound in her throat became a resonant moan that he had never heard before. It awakened every instinct in him and narrowed his desires down to the most basic and irresistible. He needed to know her. He needed to take all of her. He couldn't live with pieces anymore.

He hooked his arms around her waist and carried her to shore. Making his coat into a dry and accommodating surface was a matter of clapping his hands together, and he settled her there with as much delicacy as he could manage in his eagerness. She arched her back, grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of his neck, and pulled him down to meet her. They drowned beneath the cloudless morning sky—turning from rosy pink, to gold, and finally rich cerulean. The sun dried the water and the sweat. The earth turned. The lake rippled. Breath swallowed breath. Fingertips and mouths chased each other in a flurry of heat. He clasped her wrists against the stiff black fabric and watched her eyes turn from amber to deep dark bourbon when he enticed her legs apart.

"This time it will be right," he told her.

She peered at him through tip-tilted eyelashes and challenged him with a roll of her hips. "Prove it."

He required no further encouragement.

Need commandeered his mind. He didn't need to ask her to stay. She had never left him. But he needed the assurance all the same. He needed her breathy gasp when he entered her, and he needed her nails rasping down his back. He needed his name on her lips. Even if it was 'Colonel' more often than it was 'Roy.' They could work on that part.

Maybe he was obsessed with her. Maybe it wasn't entirely healthy, but he assured himself he had dealt with far worse. At least this obsession had exquisite fragrance and textures. He lost himself in her, and it was like shedding a heavy ballast that had been chained to his back. It was like sleeping without fire dreams, or breathing without tasting sand or blood. She was the absolution he'd been seeking, and it had taken him far too long to recognize her.

In the calm that followed, they looped their fingers together and practiced a brave new silence. She was familiar, and she was a stranger. They knew each other so well, but this was a formless novelty. He tucked her against his side and nibbled at her ear, reveling in the freedom to show her unreserved affection while she watched the water ebb and flow against the rocks. It felt strange to have so much skin in the place of starched blue uniforms. Her golden hair fell in sleek tendrils across his neck. Her toes brushed his shins. The wind rustled the willows. A cricket started singing in the grass. The world was peaceful and idyllic, and he observed it all with detachment.

He nosed the shell of her ear. "You know this means you have to marry me, Riza."

She laughed because it was the third time he asked, but she gave him his answer, and he knew she was smiling.

"Alright Roy, I will. Are you satisfied now?"

"Yes." He closed his eyes and nodded.

The sun had never felt so warm on his face. A hawk shrieked and wheeled in the sky overhead, and its shadow rolled across them. He kept her hand in his and marveled at her smallness. She didn't seem so small in uniform, but stripped down to her core, she was just a woman with scars on her back and scars on her neck who fit easily in his arms. Hawkeye was not a person to be possessed by anyone, but Riza could belong to him, and he would keep her smallness and her scars a secret from the rest of the world.

He cleared his throat. "There's just one more question I need an answer to."

He felt her brace herself. Her toes raked his shins. She turned to look at him warily, and he grinned at her.

"I think we can both agree that you knew you would be found when you disappeared this morning," he said.

"I admit nothing."

She scowled endearingly. He would never tell her it was endearing. He kissed her instead. There weren't enough occasions in the world to kiss her.

"I'll force a confession from you later. But I still need to know . . ." He ran a hand from her shoulder to her waist and splayed his fingers over her hip. She had many perfect features, but her hips were sublime. He could wax poetic about her hips.

"What were you going to do if someone besides me . . . like, say, Havoc had been the one to stumble across your ever-so-lovely nakedness?" he asked.

She propped herself up and smirked at him. Her eyes had a teasing glitter, and he became aware, not for the first time, that she knew exactly what she was doing. "I think we both know that I would have shot him, sir."

He was in love.

* * *

_It's already morning. He's been awake._

_ He wants to parse this moment down and distill its parts, so he can savor the essence—so he can crumble the seconds and make time let him go. Just this once. _

_He knows the universe blundered. Roy Mustang is a bleak man who made a bleak house on a bleak rock and paved it in memories and despair. He lived in his bleak solitude determinedly because it was the only way to atone for the deaths at his doorstep. He would have lived there until his skin sloughed off his brittle bones, and he grew too old to know what it was to regret. Only when his memory failed him would he ever know happiness. _

_But here is contentment. And it is enough. And it is more than he deserves. And if he thinks too long the fear creeps in. When will the suspended moment shatter? When will time seize hold of him and throw him down where he belongs? _

_ Her bedroom windows are open. The sky drips over the windowsill in golden rivulets, floods the floor, and pools on her bed. She has an arm thrown over her face to keep it from invading her conscience. He studies her slightly parted lips and wonders if she has any idea how she captivates him. He wants to wake her. He wants to let her sleep. He wants to live inside the sculpted hollow of her collarbone and make his new house there. He doesn't feel bleak when she is pressed close and he has her breath to warm his skin._

_ He touches her hair, because he never can help himself. She murmurs his name, and it breaks his heart anew._

_ It isn't fair that he should have this moment, but he will take it and hold it with both hands. He will fight to the death to keep it. He gathers her warm, sleepy body in his arms and holds her close while he drifts back into dreams._

_ He's loved her since before he knew what love was. Sometimes he thinks it's almost cruel that he never had any say in the matter. It was already decided for him, and his protests meant nothing. But then he looks at her, and he knows this is better than any possible alternative. This is peace. _


End file.
